That odd Thursday was born to be King, but dressed in the robes of a jester.
And his rule began with rain with four winds in a row.
And the sodden streets - shrounded in darkness,
And the road - engulfed in flames,
And the morning had been abolished And none inquired about it.
Commenced the clowning of abrupt encounters,
And point-blank the lanterns lit,
And the royal robes were torn off the shoulders
By the winds from all of the wings.
And we all of the sudden forgot our words And none came to the rescue.
And in the prompt box
An owl perched
And gazed through at us.
And the Thursday, giggling, jingled his bell
And clowned around amiss.
‘It’s simple’ he shouted ‘with a happy ending
Now you try to guess!
Your lines would prevent burning ships
I now supremely renounce them.
I order you today to play with no roles By grace of the Lord, Thursday!
And we, then, went up on the stage
And stood hand-in-hand And unwanted by heaven, the backdrop clouds
Lay in the dust.
And our script had been a blank sheet
And despair instead of words,
And the gallery whistling - indifferent to us
With the silence of the first rows.
And the Thursday watched, and then he left And nobody noticed when.
And Friday next succeeded to the throne,
So Splendid and young’